


Confessions

by Potrix



Series: Moments in Time [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 1960s, Brief Napoleon Solo/OMC, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Misunderstandings, Past Illya Kuryakin/OMC, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 13:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5628823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/pseuds/Potrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He hurt you,” Illya chokes out, and his eyes, when they finally meet Napoleon’s, are burning with emotion, too much and too intense for Napoleon to decipher. “That man. He hurt you.”</p><p>
  <span class="small">(Technically a sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5699836">Realisation</a>, but can be read as a standalone fic.)</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Finely Honed (jaqen_hgar)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqen_hgar/gifts).



> For [Finely Honed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqen_hgar), who's been super patient with me, and my gushing about my newest addiction. (And who is also a terrible, _terrible_ enabler.)
> 
> This is my first TMFU fic, and I'm actually a little nervous since I haven't posted anything but MCU in, oh, nearly two years now. Well. Here's to hoping it turned out well. 
> 
> Rated M due to some violence, not very graphic sex, and a few pretty nasty implications about Illya's childhood/teenage years.
> 
> Enjoy!

The mark proves frustratingly resistant to Napoleon’s flirting but, as luck would have it, the same can definitely not be said about her brother.

Napoleon smiles into his drink, a private little upwards curl of his mouth, when Daniele chances another loaded, and not at all subtle glance at the table where Napoleon is fruitlessly trying to charm his way into Laetitia’s good graces. Putting down his glass, Napoleon catches Daniele’s eye for a quick, heated moment, then ducks his head and bites his bottom lip, presenting the perfect picture of flustered innocence to anyone who’s unfortunate enough not to know better.

And, sure enough, not five minutes later Laetitia is called away to attend an ‘urgent matter’, and Daniele slips into her vacated seat, knee bumping against Napoleon’s under the table. “I must apologise for the inconvenience,” he says, accent heavy and tone faux-sheepish, “but my sister is needed at the office. You will have to make do with yours truly, I am afraid.”

“It’s no hardship,” Napoleon reassures, fiddling with his napkin to project false nervousness, and makes sure to gasp and fake discomposure when Daniele’s fingers close around his.

It’s not a complete lie, either, Napoleon notes with some amusement as he allows Daniele to manhandle him upstairs and out of his clothes. Daniele is handsome enough, with silky dark hair and beautiful olive skin, and if Napoleon wishes the strong hands gripping his hips were someone else’s, well. The stoic Russian owner of those hands never has to know, does he?

“Good boy,” Daniele grunts against Napoleon’s neck, thrusts gaining speed, making Napoleon open his mouth for a sarcastic retort that turns into an encouraging moan when Daniele hits his sweet spot. The man’s dirty talk might leave something to be desired, but his technique is impeccable.

Napoleon is cleaning up in the bathroom when the shouting starts, Laetitia’s angry voice mixing with Daniele’s increasingly confused questions. From what Napoleon can make out, Gaby and Illya have successfully broken into the warehouse and stolen the shipping manifests, but it seems that Laetitia--who is the head of the family business for a reason--has put the pieces together and figured out that Napoleon has been acting as a distraction. The furious pounding on the door certainly supports that theory.

Casting a resigned glance at the flimsy robe he’s wearing, Napoleon sighs and goes about prying the window open. The first shot digs into the dirt next to his feet as he’s making for the fence, the second clips his arm a moment later. Napoleon grits his teeth and keeps running, relieved when he reaches the street and spots Illya rounding the corner of the mansion, gun cocked and ready.

Illya raises an eyebrow at Napoleon’s outfit, then casts a frown in the direction Napoleon has come from. “This is not mark’s room.”

“Change of plans,” Napoleon says carelessly, without thinking, and has just enough time to watch Illya’s expression go from puzzled to understanding, then something flat and cold, before a renewed hail of bullets has them dive for cover.

Later, after they’ve gotten away mostly due to Gaby’s insanely reckless driving, the Intel safely deposited at the drop point, Napoleon is admittedly surprised to find Illya in his hotel room when he steps out of the shower. It’s not unusual for Illya to check up on him and Gaby after a mission--Napoleon has lost count of how many stitches Illya has put in him over the last year and a half--but Napoleon didn’t expect him today, not after that unpleasant moment of awkwardness during their escape.

“Let me look at wound,” Illya says, and proceeds to simply glare Napoleon’s token protests into submission, waits patiently for Napoleon to huff, throw himself down on the bed, and murmur a petulant, “Go on, then,” into his pillow.

Napoleon drifts while Illya meticulously cleans and bandages the graze, exhaustion catching up with him now that he knows the job is done and everyone is safe, Illya’s quiet presence and warm touch lulling him into a light doze. It’s only when Illya starts dabbing at the rather painful bite mark Daniele has left on Napoleon’s shoulder that Napoleon notices Illya is trembling, all tension and barely suppressed rage.

Blinking away the fog of sleepiness, Napoleon rolls over onto his back, props himself up on his elbows. “Peril?” he asks tentatively, nudging Illya’s leg with his foot. “What’s wrong?”

Illya shakes his head, jaw clenched.

Napoleon pokes his leg again. “You’re going to ruin your teeth if you keep that up, you know.”

Illya swallows hard, fingers twitching against the covers. Then, he reaches out and splays his hand over Napoleon’s stomach, thumb tracing the bruises courtesy of a hard, and cold, window sill.

Napoleon is suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s only wearing a pair of boxers, and how terrible those would be at hiding any inappropriate bodily reactions. He clears his throat, relieved when his voice comes out more or less steady. “Peril?”

“He hurt you,” Illya chokes out, and his eyes, when they finally meet Napoleon’s, are burning with emotion, too much and too intense for Napoleon to decipher. “That man. He hurt you.”

“Well, yes,” Napoleon says slowly, uncomprehending. Illya lets out a wounded noise, raw and feral, and Napoleon takes his hand, squeezes gently, reassuringly. “Peril. Illya. I’m fine, truly. I’ve had much worse.”

That is the wrong thing to say, apparently. Illya breathes out a ragged, unsteady breath, looking so lost and broken that Napoleon can’t help himself, has to sit up properly and draw Illya in close. Illya comes willingly, head dropping against Napoleon’s shoulder, face turned into Napoleon’s neck as he struggles to keep control, to regain some composure.

Napoleon gingerly cups the back of Illya’s head, scratches his fingers through the short hair there. “We got out, we’re fine,” he says quietly, utterly out of his element with over six foot of shaking ex-KGB agent very nearly sitting in his lap. “We are all safe; you, Gaby, me. We’re safe.”

They stay like that until Napoleon begins to shiver, which, regretfully, makes Illya pull back and get up to retrieve Napoleon’s pyjamas from the dresser. His eyes are suspiciously shiny, lashes clumped together tellingly, but Napoleon gets the feeling that mentioning this would be one step too far. So, for once, he remains silent, accepts the proffered clothing with a nod and a tentative smile.

Illya grunts and turns away, going to leave. He stops with the doorknob in his hand to whisper a hoarse, “Goodnight,” and then he’s gone, door shutting behind him with a soft click.

Napoleon stares after him for several long minutes, heart hammering in his chest, and stomach feeling fluttery.

“Well,” he concludes, letting himself fall back into the sheets. “That was strange.”

***

Waverly calls in the morning to inform them that while Laetitia Angelini has agreed to testify against her suppliers in order to lower her sentence, her brother has managed to escape custody. What he doesn’t say, however, is that Daniele is in possession of a very easily bruisable ego. Napoleon discovers that in person two days later, when he wakes up chained to a hook in a damp cellar’s ceiling, his left arm numb and his nose unmistakably broken.

“People usually ask before they tie me up,” he drawls, a little slurred due to what he’s fairly sure is a concussion. That earns him a fist to the stomach from one of Daniele’s lackeys, making him double over as much as is possible in his current position.

Daniele grabs his hair and yanks roughly, tilting Napoleon’s head back fast enough to make him dizzy with nausea. “You come into my house, into my bed,” he snarls, gives Napoleon another shake for good measure. “Make fools of me and my family.”

“To be fair,” Napoleon says, “we never made it as far as the bed, did we?”

The next slap jars Napoleon’s already throbbing nose, sending a wave of white hot pain coursing through his head. Napoleon grins, graces Daniele with one last cheeky wink, and doesn’t fight the darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision, lets unconsciousness take him.

Gaby and Illya will find him soon enough. They always do, after all.

Napoleon wakes up in the hospital. He can tell as much from the distinctive smell of antiseptic, and the lack of seething Italian long before he peels open his eyes to find himself propped up in bed, his needle-free hand clasped firmly between both of Gaby’s.

“Du Arschloch,” Gaby hisses the moment she sees he’s awake, but it’s wobbly and more relieved than anything else. “You have got to stop getting kidnapped. It’s getting rather tedious.”

Napoleon barks out a rasping laugh, then winces, and gratefully accepts a few sips from the glass of water Gaby holds against his lips.

“Your nasal bone is fractured in two separate places,” Gaby says as she sets the glass back down, mouth pursed ever so slightly in a mixture of concern and anger. “Your arm is badly sprained, and the prolonged lack of circulation didn’t help any, but the doctors believe you will recover fully. As for the rest of your face, well. You’ll have to keep the one you were born with, I’m afraid.”

“You have terrible bedside manner, Miss Teller,” Napoleon tisks, and scowls, but the effect is completely ruined by the fond smile he can’t quite hold back. “Mister Angelini?”

Gaby sighs at that, tired and a bit annoyed, if Napoleon is reading her right. “He’ll live.”

Napoleon frowns. “He-- what?”

Gaby’s gaze flickers to the chair in the corner, and Napoleon follows it to the softly snoring man curled up in it, looking comically large with his head hanging off one side, long legs off the other.

“Illya did not take your disappearance well,” is all Gaby says in explanation, watching Illya for another moment before turning back to Napoleon. “He’s been off ever since the mansion. Napoleon, did something happen? Something I should know about?”

“I--” Napoleon starts, then cuts himself off, and waves his hand in a jerky, helpless gesture. “I honestly do not know.”

Gaby sighs, again, but thankfully doesn’t press the issue.

Napoleon is discharged later that day. He grumbles half-heartedly while he’s bullied into a sweater and bundled up in several blankets, then ushered into the back of a taxi, Gaby and Illya squeezed onto the backseat on either side of him. He would never admit it out loud--and he’s fairly certain the drugs they had him on all night play a not inconsiderable part in it--but Napoleon is so massively, unspeakably grateful to have met these people, to be allowed to care for them, he wouldn’t know how to put it into words even if he wanted to.

Exhausted, Napoleon slumps against Illya’s side, humming contentedly when Illya shifts ever so slightly, drapes an arm across Napoleon’s shoulders to prevent him from jostling around when the taxi hits a pothole. “You,” he mumbles into Illya’s chest, “are unfairly comfortable for someone made entirely of muscle and stubbornness.”

That makes Gaby snicker, and when Napoleon peers up at him, Illya’s trying to hold back a smile of his own. “I am not going to carry you upstairs if you fall asleep on me,” Illya murmurs back, but doesn’t actually protest as Napoleon worms even closer, just wraps his arm a little tighter around Napoleon.

At the hotel, Gaby kisses Illya’s cheek, and gives Napoleon a hug that lingers just a bit longer than normal before she steps out of the elevator on her floor. Illya trails Napoleon to Napoleon’s room, hovering closely until Napoleon shoos him away to go wash up in peace.

Napoleon’s face is an absolute mess, black and blue and swollen, dried blood crusted around his nostrils. He scowls at himself in the mirror, plucks at his limp hair, and sighs. People never appreciate how much work comes with vanity. Showering with one arm practically useless proves more difficult than anticipated, but Napoleon will be damned before he asks someone for assistance. He’d like to hold on to what’s left of his dignity, thank you very much.

Relatively clean, his arm dutifully back in its sling, Napoleon gives his reflection one last disappointed look, then walks back out into the room proper. This time around, he isn’t surprised to find Illya still perched on the edge of his bed. What is quite unexpected, however, is Illya grabbing his wrist and tugging gently--always so gentle and careful, as if he believes Napoleon to be something precious--until all Napoleon can do is either pull himself free, or join Illya on the bed.

It’s not a particularly hard choice. Illya’s hands wander to the small of Napoleon’s back, giving Napoleon the final push, the permission to straddle Illya’s legs, to press them together chest to chest. Illya breathes out heavily, lids fluttering shut, and hides his face against Napoleon’s neck, nose tucked behind Napoleon’s ear, parted lips pressed against Napoleon’s flushed skin--not quite a kiss, but almost.

“Illya, what--” Napoleon says, but cuts himself off, startled, at the anguished noise that tears itself out of Illya’s throat.

Illya’s crying, Napoleon realises. No, not simply crying, he’s sobbing, shaking all over and clinging to Napoleon as if afraid Napoleon will vanish if he loosens his grip, even just a fraction, his chest heaving with the effort of it, his hands fisted into Napoleon’s robe.

Napoleon threads his fingers into Illya’s hair, lips brushing Illya’s temple. “I-- I don’t know what to do,” he admits, terrified, because Illya is his rock, his anchor, the first and only steadiness Napoleon has ever known, ever wanted. “Illya, I don’t know what to do.”

Illya is beyond answering, though, is falling apart in Napoleon’s arms, and all Napoleon can do is watch and hold onto him, trying his best not to break wide open himself.

***

At some point, the kidnapping and the drugs must have caught up with Napoleon, because he can’t remember falling asleep when the rudely bright morning sun annoys him back into wakefulness.

He’s on his side, Illya curled against his front, and, much to Napoleon’s endless mortification, his achingly hard cock is nestled cosily between their bellies. Napoleon slowly, carefully moves one of his legs, stilling immediately when Illya grunts in his sleep, clearly displeased with that development. Of all the precarious situation Napoleon has landed himself in in his never dull life, this one must surely be one of the most delicate--and he is counting his ill-advised tryst with the Indian princess four years ago.

Napoleon is still unsuccessfully trying to come up with a solution that doesn’t involve him getting punched, again, when Illya stirs, and blinks open his eyes. Napoleon holds his breath, and for one wonderful, fleeting moment, Illya smiles at him, all softness and--Napoleon dares to hope--genuine affection.

Then, fighting off the sheets tangled around his legs, Illya sits up and scrambles away, choking out, “I am not like that man,” despite what looks suspiciously like evidence to the contrary tenting his pants.

It stings. Napoleon has always known, of course, but hearing the rejection out loud hurts nonetheless. “I know,” Napoleon says dejectedly, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “You’re not a homosexual, I know, and I am sorry, it was never my intention to make you uncomfortable, I--”

Illya actually laughs at that. Honest to God laughs. “Your dick does not make me uncomfortable, Cowboy.”

Napoleon stares, caught somewhere between confused, and dangerously hopeful.

“It was not my choice to join KGB,” Illya says quietly, one corner of his mouth curling up into a sad, humourless smile at Napoleon’s surprised intake of breath. “My mother, she was not well after my father was taken away. She died not long after, when I was fourteen. I--” He swallows hard, eyes flickering away, refusing to meets Napoleon’s. “I was not used to being alone. I went to special bar, where men go to seek company of other men.”

“Illya-”

“I met older man, Yuri,” Illya continues, hands clenched into fists atop his thighs. “He was generous, handsome, bought me things. Made me feel good. He was also KGB. His superiors were not happy when they found out about affair with boy. I don’t know what happened to Yuri, but I was given ultimatum; come work for KGB, or be sent away to labour camp.”

Napoleon settles his hands over Illya’s, an offer of comfort, but stays silent. There is more, he can feel it, and Illya seems determined to get it all out, now that he’s started.

“Oleg saw potential in me,” Illya says, takes a shuddering breath. “Also saw potential advantage of offering me to marks with taste similar to Yuri’s. Bait them into compromising position, then arrest them to get them out of way.”

Which is more than enough for Napoleon to finally put the pieces together. “That bastard!” he growls, something furiously protective swelling up in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him for a moment. “That utter bastard!”

Suddenly desperate for Illya to understand, Napoleon hooks a finger under Illya’s chin, forcing Illya’s reluctant gaze up to meet his. “They had no right,” he thunders, then gentles his voice when Illya actually flinches back, cups Illya’s face between his hands. “That is not how U.N.C.L.E. operates, I swear. No one is forcing me, or anyone else, to do things like that, no one. Do you hear? No one, it’s not happening.”

Illya worries his bottom lip. “But the man, the Italian--”

“It was my choice to sleep with him, a fun distraction,” Napoleon promises, strokes a reassuring thumb over Illya’s cheek. “Granted, it was a poor choice, but it was mine.”

“But you like women,” Illya says sceptically. Then, with a hefty dose of bitterness behind it, he adds, “I know you like women. I am not blind.”

Napoleon shrugs. “I like both. Capitalist decadence.” Illya shoots him a grudgingly amused glare. Napoleon smiles, picks up Illya’s hand to brush a light, teasing kiss over his knuckles, heart sinking when Illya tenses.

Is it possible that Napoleon has terribly misjudged this entire situation? That Illya’s newfound tactility is fuelled by a misunderstanding about a supposedly shared fate, and not by fondness for Napoleon himself?

Napoleon is about to apologise, maybe play the whole thing off as a joke so he can go and lick his wounds in peace, but Illya beats him to it with a quiet, heartbroken, “I do not want to be fun distraction. I cannot be fun distraction, I--”

“You are not,” Napoleon hastens to reassure, pressing his lips to the back of Illya’s hand once more, pleading with Illya to understand the emotion behind the gesture. “You are not, Illya. Not you, never that.”

And Illya, praise the God neither of them believe in, has never been a man in need of many words, brings their linked hands up to his own lips, and says a simple, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Napoleon parrots weakly, shaky and a little disbelieving, prompting Illya to snort, roll his eyes, and chuckle into their first proper kiss.

It is pure bliss. Right up until the moment Napoleon gets too eager, bumps the broken nose he had entirely forgotten about against Illya’s cheekbone, and has to pull back with a muffled curse.

“This is why you are terrible spy,” Illya quips playfully, clearly holding back laughter. “Total lack of situational awareness.”

But he also cradles the back of Napoleon’s head in one big hand, steadying Napoleon to drop a lingering kiss on his forehead, then on Napoleon’s pouting lips. Napoleon graciously decides to forgive him for his atrocious sense of humour. Just this once, however.

**Author's Note:**

> Go check out my other [work](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/works), or come over and say hi on [tumblr](http://potrix-the-queerschlaeger.tumblr.com/).


End file.
